I stare at her, and wonder who, really, she is. I think I know her pretty well. At least, that’s what I thought. After all, I’ve known her every day of my life. That’s practically, almost 16 years.

      Yet, at the same time, she is a stranger to me. I’ve watched her grow from a tiny baby, and she’s changed so much. So much that I wouldn’t recognize her as the little girl I used to know.

      She was once a happy girl, when she was small and carefree. She didn’t have to worry about struggling against much of anything. No winds. No waves. Just smooth, breezy sailing. Things seemed so easy when she was little. She had the pure, sweet, childlike faith, that so many grown-ups had lost. She grew up in a good home, with good parents and decent surroundings. I still wonder, who is she, really?

      She really has grown up! Beautiful, perhaps. Some think so. She doesn’t, sometimes. Some think she’s a sweet and good girl. She doesn’t. Things have changed since her childhood. There’s a darker side to life, now. It’s not longer bright and fun like it used to be. A darkness, a depression, has put a taint on life. Things are no longer innocent. There are aspects in life that are very dark and dirty. Now there’s a struggle. She has a greater responsibility: to God, and to others. She needs to discover who, really, she is, why she was born, why she is here.

      Beauty. The way guys trip all over themselves to get her attention would lead you to believe she’s beautiful. There’s just something about her they seem to find fascinating. Irresistible. But beauty is more than skin deep. So much more. She knows that. She knows who she really is… and it’s not beautiful at all, she thinks. Still, I wonder. Who is she, really?

      She may be pretty, extrovert, charming, a guy-magnet. She may be fun, talented, graceful. But she know’s who she really is. Yet, still, I wonder.

       Who is she, really?

       I stare at her. She stares back. Her blue eyes look deep into mine. Her blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders and cascades down her back. Who is she, really?

       She stares back at me. I bite my lip, and stare back. I stare back at the girl in the mirror.